Castle of Secrets (13 page)

Her gaze moved
on until she stood in front of a portrait of the three children, fully grown,
and dressed in the fashions of a few years previously. It was of the
fair-haired son’s wedding day.
Helena
remembered what Mrs Beal had said, that Lord Torkrow had no
need to marry because of his brother. She must have meant that, as he had an
heir in his brother, and as his brother looked set to carry on the family line,
Lord Torkrow had no need to marry to provide an heir.
Helena
looked at the portrait of the bride,
who stood next to his brother. She was a beautiful young woman with soft fair
hair, and she seemed happy.

What had
happened to the brother? she wondered. Where was he now? Not at school, that
much was clear. So where was he? And where was his wife?

‘Do you know
what they call my family in the village?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she
acknowledged. ‘They call you Stormcrow.’

She turned
towards him and she was preternaturally aware of him. Though not handsome, his
face was striking, and she found her eyes tracing the lines of his forehead,
nose and mouth. It was not prone to laughter as it had been in his portrait,
and she wondered if it would ever be again.

‘Do you know
why they call us that?’ he asked.

She shook her
head.

‘Do you know
what a stormcrow is?’

‘No.’

‘A stormcrow
is a bird of ill omen,’ he said. ‘It brings bad news.’ He led her over to the
first portrait. It was of a thin, sinewy man in middle age, with bright amber
eyes.

‘This is the
first earl. He brought the news of the Yorkist defeat at the Battle of
Bosworth, back to his father. As you can see, he was a man with a thin face and
bright eyes. As he rode across the moors to break the news, a storm followed
him. A crow flying before the coming storm alighted on his shoulder, and they
rode in through the gate together. When it was known what news he brought, an
old man, playing on our name of Torkrow, quipped,
Here they are, two
stormcrows
.’

They moved on.

‘That is the
second earl,’ he said.

He stood
behind her. He lifted his hand as they looked at the portrait, and for a
moment, she thought he was going to rest it on her shoulder. She felt an
awareness ripple through her in anticipation of his touch, but instead he
gestured at the painting, and the lack of his touch left her feeling strangely
empty.

‘Richard
brought his father the news that his mother was dead, thrown by her palfrey,’
he continued. ‘“My son, you are a true stormcrow,” his father said.’

Helena
looked up at the face of
Richard, who was dressed fashionably for his era, in a slashed doublet and
breeches. He looked carefree.

‘He had not
earnt his nickname when this portrait was painted,’ she said.

‘No. He had no
idea what was about to happen. He was still happy, then.’

He moved to
the next portrait. The third earl Stormcrow was standing with his hands on his
hips and with his legs wide apart, looking solid and secure. He was wearing a
doublet that accentuated the width of his shoulders, with wide sleeves that
billowed outwards, before being confined at his wrist.

‘He looks as
though nothing can topple him, doesn’t he?’ asked Lord Torkrow, standing behind
her. He was so close that she could feel his body heat, and she had a
disturbing urge to lean backwards and feel his warmth envelop her, but she
resisted the strange impulse.

‘What happened
to him?’ asked
Helena
.

‘There was a
fire, and the family house in
York
was razed to the ground. He brought the news to his mother,
an old woman of ninety-nine, who had been making plans to celebrate her one
hundredth birthday. The news caused his mother’s death, three hours before she
would have achieved her ambition. Henry was ostracised for giving his mother
the news, instead of letting her hear it through other means, after her
birthday.’

He went on,
telling her the story of each Stormcrow, and of how each one had earned his
name, until at last they stood before his own family portrait.

‘And you?’
asked
Helena
. ‘How did you earn the
name?’

He said
nothing, and a profound silence engulfed them.
Helena
turned to look at him, and she saw
that his face had gone white. His eyes, in contrast, were dark and hollow, and
the rings around them were black. He was staring at the portrait, and she knew
he was far away, back in the past. His hands had dropped to his side, and she
saw that they were clenched into fists. He opened his mouth, and she thought he
was going to speak, but then he turned and strode out of the gallery, leaving
her alone.

She looked
again at the portrait of the boy he had been, a happy, carefree child. But now
he was a man sunk in mystery, and darkness wrapped itself around him like a
shroud.

What had
happened to him? she wondered. What tragedy had befallen him? What news had he
carried? And how had he earnt his name?

Why did I do that? Simon asked
himself as he descended the massive staircase and went into the library. Why
did I try to make her understand?

He tried to
settle to estate business, but he could not concentrate. He heard
Helena
’s light step as she
followed his down the stairs and went into the housekeeper’s room. He picked up
his quill, then threw it down and went out of the library, climbing the stairs
two at a time, returning to the gallery and pacing to the end, then pressing
the embossing on the wall and waiting impatiently for the secret door to open.
It swung ponderously inwards, and he went inside.

The room was
small and panelled. A window looked out on to the moor. An empty grate held
blackened ashes. Above the fireplace hung a portrait. It was of a young woman,
his brother’s bride. She was looking radiantly beautiful. She wore her fair
hair loose, hanging round her shoulders in soft curls. Her muslin gown, with
its high waist, revealed a slight figure with gentle curves. Her lips were
pink, and her eyes were blue. She was standing in a garden, and the dew was on
the roses.

He stood, lost
in thought, until a sound disturbed him. Miss Parkins had entered the hidden
room. She was the last person he wanted to see, especially here, now.

‘Did you wish
to speak to me?’ he asked her coldly.

‘I understand
you are to go ahead with the ball, my lord.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Do you think
it wise? A masked ball can hide many secrets.’

‘I have made
my decision. The ball will go ahead.’

‘Very good, my
lord,’ she said, with a trace of insolence.

She walked
over to him and stood beside him, looking at the portrait.

‘She was very
beautiful,’ said Miss Parkins.

‘Yes, she
was.’ He could not keep the wistfulness out of his voice.

‘Your brother
chose well. He loved her dearly. Until you killed her.’

The following morning,
Helena
began to organize the
castle in earnest. Unsettled by everything that had happened, she was glad to
take refuge in physical labour. The library, drawing-room and dining-room were
well cared for, so she decided to rescue a further room from its state of
neglect. If there was to be a ball, then the castle must be brought back to
life again. All thoughts of leaving quickly had left her, for she did not
intend to go before she had had a chance to speak to Sally and Martha.

She chose a
small sitting room that overlooked the front of the castle, and she began by
removing the dust sheets, taking them off and folding them carefully so as not
to disturb the dust that had settled on them. She was surprised to see that the
furniture was of good quality, and delicate. Gold chairs in elegant styles were
upholstered with red brocade,  a padded sofa was covered in a matching brocade,
and, as she removed the dust sheets from the floor, she discovered a flowered
carpet. It had been a lady’s room, then, she thought, as she looked about her.
Whose room had it been? Had it belonged to his lordship’s mother, or his
sister-in-law?

She rang the
bell, and whilst she waited for it to be answered, she began to dust the
mantelpiece and other surfaces, revealing the beauty of the wood beneath.

The door
opened and Effie entered hesitantly.

‘It’s all
right, Effie, come in. I am preparing this room for use. I want you to light a
fire here, and then I would like you to bring a bucket of water and wash the
windows. Make sure Mrs Beal does not need you first.’

‘Yes, missis.’

Effie
departed, but returned soon afterwards.

As they
worked,
Helena
asked the girl about her
family. Reluctantly at first, Effie began to speak, saying that she had been
orphaned and that a cousin had found her work at the castle. Once or twice,
Helena
led the conversation
round to Mrs Carlisle, but Effie became nervous when she did so, and so she
talked of other things. Gradually, though, she began to win the girl’s trust,
and thought that, before many more days had passed, she might induce Effie to
confide in her. That the girl knew something, she was convinced, though whether
it was important remained to be seen.

By late
afternoon, the room was looking cheerful.
Helena
had wound the ormolu clock, which
was ticking on the mantelpiece, and polished the gilded mirrors. Effie had
washed the windows, both inside and out, and they sparkled where they caught
the light. The fire was crackling merrily in the grate.

‘It’s a pity
there is no one to use it,’ said
Helena
to Effie, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes
with the back of her hand.

‘Yes, missis.’

‘Whose room
was it? Do you know?’

‘It was ’ers,’
said Effie, not very helpfully.

‘Was it used
by Lord Torkrow’s mother?’

Effie did not
reply.

‘Or his
sister-in-law?’

Effie nodded.

‘She liked it
’ere.’

‘Does she live
here now?’ asked
Helena
.

Effie dropped
the poker with a clatter, and was clearly frightened.

‘Where is she,
Effie?’ asked
Helena
. ‘Is she in the castle? Or
on holiday?’

‘No, missis.
She’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, missis.’

‘Then the
crying in the attic — ’
is not her
, 
Helena
was about to say, when Effie
interrupted her.

‘Yes, missis,
it’s ’er. Dawkins says she walks,’ said Effie.

‘Nonsense,’
said
Helena
reassuringly. ‘The dead
don’t walk, Effie. There was nothing in the attic but a cat. Together we have
made a very good job of this,’ she went on more cheerfully. ‘The room looks
bright and welcoming.’

‘P’raps she’ll
stop crying now, missis. P’raps she’ll walk in ’ere, not in the attic.’

As the thought
clearly cheered her,
Helena
did not gainsay it.

‘Now, you must
return to the kitchen. I’m sure Mrs Beal will be wanting you. I will finish
here.’

Effie picked
up her bucket and left the room.

As
Helena
put a few finishing
touches to the room, she wondered what had happened to Lord Torkrow’s sister,
thinking:
How did she die? How long ago was it?

And where
is she buried?

Helena
joined Mrs Beal for dinner that
evening, and as Mrs Beal dished out the mutton stew, she said: ‘I will be going
to see Mrs Willis this afternoon about finding some more maids for the castle.
How many do you think I will need?’

‘Take as many
as you can find,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘There’s plenty of work to be done.’

‘I have made a
start on the downstairs rooms already, opening up a sitting-room overlooking
the front of the castle. Effie tells me it used to belong to his lordship’s
sister-in-law. I saw her portrait in the gallery. She was very beautiful.’

‘Yes, she was,
poor lady.’

‘It was a
tragedy when she died.’

‘Master
Richard went mad with grief,’ said Mrs Beal with a sigh. Then, recollecting herself,
added: ‘Least said, soonest mended, I always say. You’re going to see Mrs
Willis this afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d better
ask her to help you find some footmen, too. There’s going to be a lot of work
fetching and carrying beforehand, and we’ll need someone to carry the drinks on
the day.’